


Milked

by JessamyGriffith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Comeplay, Established Relationship, Food Kink, Freudian Elements, Hand Jobs, Licking, M/M, Milk, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock becomes unbearable on a case, it's up to John to find a way to defuse the situation  any way he can before there's a flaming row.</p><p>The bagged milk only made releasing the tension that much more interesting.</p><p> </p><p>A story of pseudo-breasts, oral fixation, Freud and bagged milk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/gifts).



> Um. Well, I hesitate to call it PWP, because that doesn't quite fit. Nor is it crack, though the milk trope does suggest it. Nor is it entirely light-hearted fluff. So, take a trip - the road swerves a lot and you pass from ridiculous to serious to sexy to fun again.
> 
> Again, if you feel you need to ask, 'What the hell?', go ahead and comment!
> 
> Thanks as always to [alltoseek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek) for keeping John's speech John-like, and redchapel for her back-patting over my constant spelling using '-ize' instead of '-ise'.

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/crimsongriffin/8447759964/)

 

 

John flexed his stiff fingers around the plastic handles of the carrier bags as he made his way back to the hotel. November in Toronto was as cold as he'd expected, but he'd had no time to grab his gloves before Sherlock had driven him out with his demands. The pavement was clear of ice, but a desultory sprinkling of snow was beginning to sift down. He looked up beyond the orange-tinted street lights to what he could see of the skyline of the city. It was beautiful but bloody freezing. His breath misted in the chill evening air, and John longed for the warmth of their shared hotel room. The things he did for Sherlock. Well, hopefully his errand would have its reward. A smile stretched his cold lips.

He transferred both bags to one cramping hand and pulled open the door to their hotel, sighing in relief as the warm air from the lobby began to send prickling warmth over his reddened cheeks. The desk clerk looked up as John brushed snow from his hair and shoulders. "Good evening, sir. Snowing again?"

"Yes. Too cold for my blood, don't know how you folks can stand it," said John. The clerk grinned. There was nothing a Canadian liked better than a compliment on their native disregard of　winter weather. Well, John thought, he himself had some pride in his acclimatisation to the desert clime of Afghanistan. He wished for a breath of that dry desert heat just now. John pressed the lift button.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock set aside his laptop and turned in the desk chair to glare as John opened the door to their room. "Well?"  
  
“Hello to you too.” John pushed the door closed with a shoulder before handing over one of the carrier bags. "Here you go. Full fat milk. Enjoy."  
  
Sherlock turned away to the makeshift lab he'd set up in the bathroom. John tossed the second bag on the bed, settled himself against the headboard and picked up the remote. He hadn't got as far as switching on the telly before there was a shout. John's mouth spread into an unabashed grin.  
  
"John! What is this? I wanted you to get -"  
  
"Milk." John raised his voice to cut across Sherlock's. "And I did."  
  
"This is not what I expected. Why is it in bags?"  
  
"You never specified what container it should be in. That's how they do most milk here, apparently." John clicked his tongue. "Really. A man who can blog about two hundred forty types of tobacco ash ought to be unsurprised by variety."  
  
Sherlock appeared at the foot of the bed, irritation visible in the set of his shoulders. John smoothed his expression to one of polite interest.  
  
"This is ridiculous. How does one pour milk in measured and clean quantities from – this flaccidity?" Sherlock jiggled the bag of milk in one hand. An odd expression crossed his face.  
  
John swallowed a chuckle and lifted his brows. "Interesting, isn't it? I dunno, I think these Canadians are onto something. Feels a lot like -"  
  
"Breasts," said Sherlock, his tone flat. "Yes, I can recognise that particular tactile sensation. No, not explaining it now," he said as John opened his mouth. "It was never Irene, anyway, so take that look off your face."  
  
"No, wouldn't be much like her," muttered John. "Fried eggs on a plate."  
  
Sherlock appeared not to hear or wisely refrained from comment. He joggled the milk again. "Remarkable sensory simulation. Did you pick up a jug or pitcher as well? The ice bucket is in use at the moment.”

John nodded at the second carrier bag. He winced as the milk bag landed on the bed and bounced. Sherlock held up a blue plastic jug, turning it left and right. "Snip one tip of the bag for pouring... no lip on the jug, the bag goes inside," he muttered. "Interesting. Plastic milk pints are more practical."  
  
John toyed with the remote. "Less waste with bags. And you could recycle them. The one you chucked on the bed - and thanks for that, by the way – it seemed pretty strong. The shop did have cartons, but this was..." _More entertaining,_ John thought. "Cheaper," he finished.  
  
"Mm." Sherlock considered this. "The tensile strength of these would make them a practical choice for freezing small organs or splintered bone." Over John's obligatory sigh he continued, "Do you have a penknife?"  
  
"No, of course not!" said John. "Airport security, you know?"  
  
"Checked bags," countered Sherlock.  
  
"And why is it my job to bring knives?" John said, exasperated.  
  
"You're the soldier," Sherlock said.  
  
"And a doctor, so -"  
  
"All the more reason to carry something sharp, _Doctor_ Watson. Never mind. Scissors?"  
  
John shook his head, waiting for Sherlock to reach the same point his own mind had when looking over the selection of dairy products. Sherlock blew out a breath, causing his over-long curls to flutter.  
  
John watched, biting the inside of his cheek as Sherlock picked up the bag and eyed it with disfavour. Sherlock set his teeth to the plump corner of the milk bag and pulled. The tip stretched, but didn't give. John held his breath. Sherlock gritted his teeth and began to gnaw. At last he spat a piece of plastic, grip tightening as the bag yielded. His triumph was cut short by a stream of milk.  
  
John burst into laughter, remote falling away as he clutched his ribs. The milk ran down Sherlock's face as he struggled to pinch off the tiny opening in the milk bag. Sherlock cast him an affronted look, the effect ruined by the drips falling from his chin to soak into his white dress shirt.  
  
"Sorry, sorry," John choked as he regained control. "But that was perfect. It's just - " He began to giggle again. "Your face. Just like a baby I saw at the surgery once, pulling off his mother's teat and the milk spraying up his nose."  
  
"And the breast analogies continue," said Sherlock, but a faint smile curved his lips..  
  
"Truth is," John said, "Sainsbury's carries bagged milk, but the nearest shop to Baker street is a Tesco Express, so I've never got it for you before. Maybe if you'd do the shopping more..."  
  
"John," Sherlock said in his _not that again_ voice. John chuckled, unquelled. His mood was much improved by the sight of his maddening partner cradling a sagging bag with milk running down that aristocratic face.  
  
"Never mind, I've had my bit of fun. I'll just get you plastic pints in future."  
  
Sherlock was quiet a moment. "Have I been that bad?" John shrugged but no reply was needed. Sherlock had been ill-tempered over the delays in the investigation, hampered by both a lack of leads and any good connections with the provincial police. Hence, John's small attempt to defuse some of the growing tension between them before either snapped and there was a flaming row. They both needed the distraction. Bagged milk just made it – well, more fun.  
  
Sherlock was silent. He regarded the milk bag. To John's surprise, he lifted it up again with care, setting the gnawed corner between his lips and squeezing. His long throat worked as he swallowed. John's mouth went dry. Sherlock let the plastic slip from his mouth, tongue catching a stray drop before pinching the tip again. "Lovely. Would you like to try?"  
  
John nodded, wordless. Sherlock settled himself on the bed by John's hip and leaned forward. Something in Sherlock's casual pose made John tense suddenly, hands flying up to grasp Sherlock's wrists. "Sherlock, wait -"

Too late. Sherlock loosened his grip on the open tip and squeezed. A creamy arc hit John mid-chest. John would forever deny the noise that emerged from his mouth as a yelp. "Cold!" A low chuckle was the only reply as John strained to push Sherlock's hands away. Another flex of Sherlock's fingers, and milk trickled down his wrists and over John's hands, drops soaking quickly into John's shirt. Sherlock's dark curls fell forward to cover his eyes as he leant to run his tongue in a warm path over John's fingers. John's muscles locked in new tension up as the tip of Sherlock's tongue curled under John's littlest finger, coaxing it away from his wrist and into his mouth. Teeth scraped over skin as the finger was sucked deeper, tongue moving against skin in a way that had heat abruptly gripping John's gut. "Sherlock!"  
  
The warmth of that sinful mouth drew off his finger, Sherlock's tongue stroking away lingering stickiness on John's hand. "Milk's not going to hurt that shirt." Sherlock's deep voice had an amused edge. "Stop complaining." A shiver that had nothing to do with cold fabric sticking to skin passed through John. Sherlock pinched the bag's opening again and bent to suck at the milk darkening John's blue shirt.  
  
"Oh, Jesus." John's grip loosened from Sherlock's wrists, hands falling to the bed cover, eyes half-closing. Sherlock mouthed his way up John's chest, warm breath against the chilled wet causing a prickle of goose-bumps to run up John's arms. John sucked in a breath of protest as Sherlock sat up, only to expel it in a rasp when a small trickle of cold milk hit his nipple, causing it to tighten up in response.  
  
Sherlock hummed in satisfaction at this result. His pale eyes gleamed through his fringe as he bent forward again, tongue dragging against cotton weave to find the tip.  
  
"Oh, yes." John's hands flew up to cup Sherlock's head as his mouth exerted suction, tongue rubbing hard against the nipple. His jeans were growing uncomfortably tight. God, the _mouth_ on the man… Concentration fraying, John got out, "Never knew you had such an oral fixation."  
  
Under his hands he felt Sherlock's movement go still. Sherlock sat back, regarding John with an unreadable expression. Oh, damn.  
  
"Um. Sorry. Didn't know what I was saying," John said. He grimaced. He hadn't meant to– well, kill this whim of Sherlock's when it had gone from being a joke to something so much more promising. _The least little thing, and it always comes out of nowhere,_ John thought with some bitterness. Five years together they had, two of them intimate, and John doubted he would ever understand Sherlock completely. Now Sherlock was going to go back to being withdrawn and prickly, and John was going to need a shower. A cold one.  
  
"I wasn't breast-fed as a child," said Sherlock, unexpectedly. John's eyes flew to his. "Being of a certain class and education, my mother put me on a bottle almost immediately after getting home from hospital." He sniffed. "Apparently only hippies did extensive breast-feeding, according to what I overheard her say once to a friend."  
  
John blinked. _All right then._ He thought about it a moment. "Common enough practice in the sixties and seventies," he said cautiously. "I think I only got four months of it myself before my mum started boiling bottles and wearing normal bras again. It’s preferable to use breast milk, but getting it from bottle or not isn’t that important, Sherlock."  
  
"But it is," countered Sherlock, "if you put any credence in Freud."  
  
"Sherlock, I was only making a joke. A bad one. I don't actually think -"  
  
"Oh, but all unwittingly, you have hit upon something." Sherlock shifted to lean over John and pick up the plastic jug, carefully manoeuvring the milk bag inside. He set it on the bedside table, eyes cool on John's face. "I could be the role model for orally fixated neurotics. Consider: I was weaned at a very young age; ergo I was deprived. I'm a smoker. I have a pessimistic outlook on life. I'm known to manipulate people to serve my needs, I have a suspicious mind --"

"And you flay idiots with your tongue, you like to bite during sex and you suck cock like a porn star." John cut across Sherlock's self-denigration brutally. Sherlock's head tilted towards him at the sharp tone. "Fine. You are a flimsily-stitched together bag of neuroses, Sherlock, I get it. Is this another thing you put together yourself, or was it actually diagnosed?"  
  
"By a professional?" Sherlock's voice was dry. "Yes. Mummy was appalled."  
  
"Counselling?"  
  
"Yes, until I refused to go."  
  
"Medication?"  
  
"It was the seventies. Of course. For a short time. For my 'anxiety' and undesirable behaviour."  
  
"Unbelievable. Your bloody _family_." John's tone was hard and his grin fierce, hands braced on the bed to keep from them from balling up. "Your mother may have believed it -"  
  
"Only for as long as it took for the blow to her self-esteem to mend."  
  
"But I don't. And neither do you."  
  
Sherlock drew back, but his expression was a challenge. _Explain._ John took up the gauntlet and entered the fray.  
  
"Consider," he said, echoing Sherlock's earlier words. "A man who doesn't bite his nails, chew on pens -"  
  
"Unsanitary."  
  
"Be quiet, it's my turn now. A man who doesn't snack, chew gum or even eat very much. An ex-smoker, thank you very much. Certainly a manipulator par excellence, and I wouldn't put it past you to have worked your wiles upon your doctors as child, once you understood the nature of the questions they asked you."  
  
Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes gleamed. John nodded to himself and continued.  
  
"A frustrated man who frequently says _out loud_ to friends and colleagues, 'I’m surrounded by idiots!' A genius." John leaned forward. "Isolated by your intellect. A man, alone. And lonely."  
  
Sherlock's gaze never wavered from his. "I have you."  
  
"You know what I mean," John said. "I know I can’t keep up intellectually, I just try to be there. You do the same for me." He cleared his throat. "So."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"You display none of the _common_ physical behaviourisms of oral fixation."  
  
"Mind over matter."  
  
"Therein lies our problem. Freud was overly concerned with abnormal behaviour and I get the feeling he wouldn’t know how to categorise you." Sherlock's eyes crinkled in appreciation at the implied compliment, and John breathed a laugh. "Not meaning to stroke your ego, Sherlock. But really, what's left? You’re vocally abusive. You dislike other people – and your detective work doesn’t make it better. But if you’re clever enough to break your childhood habit of thumb-sucking…”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to deny this, only to catch John’s knowing look. He pressed his lips together and huffed a breath through his nose.  
  
John kept his face sober, blue eyes serious, a doctor speaking to his patient. “I think there can only be one real diagnosis for your behaviour."  
  
"What's that?" Sherlock lifted his chin. There was a slight flush on his cheekbones, his mouth set.  
  
"You're an infuriating arse."  
  
There was a moment of silence. Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth twitched, and then he laughed. The sound was so open, so infectious that John couldn't help joining in. Gasping, Sherlock bent over, touching his forehead to John's. "Perfect. Well done, John." He grasped John's head in both hands and tilted his face up for a quick press of lips. "You are quite right – if I am capable of modifying my behaviour, there is no reason for me not to also restrain my speech. Apart from my being... an arse. Tell me, doctor - is it incurable?"  
  
Another snort escaped John at hearing the swear word in Sherlock's posh accent. Sherlock shook John’s head side to side lightly. "You haven't finished."  
  
"I haven’t?"  
  
"No." Sherlock's gaze travelled down over John's face to his wet shirt, fingers idly playing in the short strands of John's hair. "You briefly mentioned my oral sexual behaviour?"

"No, what I _think_ I said was something about you loving to have a cock in your mouth. You’re very skilled at it, you know - fellatio." John's took in the small pause in Sherlock's breathing as he spoke the last word. _Ah_. He brushed Sherlock's hands away and reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "And the tongue for analingus. I don't think I've begged for anyone quite the way I've begged for you when you've used that sadistic tongue of yours to lick me open for you."  
  
He pushed the loosened shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, noting the small tremor in the lean body beneath his hands. "But of course, the crux of oral fixation is – the mouth. The thing this mouth is amazing at, and it requires absolutely no technique from you whatsoever." Sherlock's head lowered as John took his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss, tongues touching and tangling until a soft noise escaped Sherlock's throat. John withdrew, watching as Sherlock's half-lowered lids lifted, a question in his eyes. John’s laugh was low. "No, not kissing."  
  
John lifted a hand to card through Sherlock's hair, curls slipping between fingers until he twisted them tight in a fist. Sherlock hissed at the pinch, and John took his chance to press his face against his, eyelashes brushing against a sharp cheekbone, mouth hot against lightly-stubbled skin. "We don’t do it all the time. I'm talking about that thing I do, and you take it and love it.” John inhaled, the faint perfume of Sherlock’s spicy aftershave overlain with the sweetness of milk. “When you are on your knees in front of me with my hands in your hair like this and my cock in that smart, insulting mouth. When you are helpless to do anything but take it as I move, watching my cock slide between those lovely red wet lips. Fucking your mouth and shutting you up until I come, and you swallow it all down and lick me clean after. _Irrumatio,_ Sherlock."  
  
The shudder that ran through Sherlock's body was more pronounced. _That’s it,_ John thought. _Almost there…_  
  
He tugged hard on Sherlock’s hair once more before deliberately relaxing his grip, hands drifting away. Sherlock’s shoulders sagged slightly before there was a flurry of movement and John found himself lying across the bed, wrists pinned beside his head and Sherlock straddling him. John grinned and undulated his hips, pressing his erection into the weight holding him down. They both gasped at the sensation and Sherlock growled. His eyes were fierce between narrowed lids. “You little tease. _Get to the point.”_  
  
“I will. When I’m good and ready.” John rolled his hips again and Sherlock’s lips drew back in frustration. _Oh, perfect._ John laughed and groaned aloud as Sherlock struck, teeth sinking into the juncture of neck and shoulder. Oh, yes, as good as it felt, that was going to leave a lasting mark. _Yes, more._ John twisted, arms straining against Sherlock’s hold as his assault continued, marking his throat with hard sucking kisses that pressed teeth into soft skin. “Jesus. Don’t stop!” Sherlock’s head moved lower to skin still covered by shirt, hissing in annoyance but not letting up his grip on John’s wrists. John gave a chuckle that choked to a gasp as incisors left grooves in fabric and the pectoral muscle below. His hips thrust up as Sherlock ground his arse against his trapped erection. Again Sherlock bit, more gently this time. The next bite was a sharp pain, followed by warmth as Sherlock pressed his mouth against the injury. John’s response was vocal and entirely wordless. Just a few more nips and licks… Wait. What?  
   
John lifted his head to look down his body. Sherlock was watching him through his fringe, breath warming the cotton over his nipple. Waiting. John licked dry lips. For what? Oh, _right._

“Of course, a point against you…” John's voice trailed away as Sherlock pressed a soft kiss against cotton, then lifted his head, eyes dark yet intent. Still waiting. John gritted his teeth, gathered his thoughts. “You exhibit clear signs of oral sadism. This thing you have for… God, yes!” John broke off as Sherlock drew the edges of his teeth back and forth against the peak of John's nipple. “For biting. Do it, _do it_ , you bastard or I’ll –“  
  
John’s throat tightened on a rasp as Sherlock opened his mouth as wide as he could before setting his teeth into the flesh around John’s nipple. His tongue caressed the peak as his teeth sank, slowly, pleasure and pain building and mingling until John’s back arched, head digging into the mattress, caught between fighting and offering himself up for more. The pain retreated and John came back to himself. His wrists, free from Sherlock’s grip, were aching with what he knew would show up as fingerprint-shaped bruises. The flesh around his nipple felt hot, with a deep sharp ache. Sherlock himself was breathing harshly through his nose as his fingers busied themselves with the buttons of John’s shirt cuffs. “Off,” Sherlock said. “Get it _off_ , it’s in the way…”  
  
The cuffs flopped free and the long hands reached for the buttons down John’s front, fingers clumsy at their work. John covered Sherlock’s hands with one of his own. "Sherlock." The frantic movements stopped and Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s. _There. Got him._  
  
“Sherlock,” John repeated. He licked his lips and smiled slowly. “ _I haven’t finished yet_.” Sherlock’s eyes widened as John went on. “Let us further consider…”  
  
John would have laughed at the mixture of emotions that flashed across Sherlock’s face, had he not been filled with aches from abused muscles and a heavy arousal. He tamped down the burst of fond love that threatened his composure and instead blinked up at the infuriated, aroused man over him. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his lips moved a little, as though curses hovered on the tip of his tongue. But he settled his weight back into John’s groin with a deliberate movement, dragging a hard exhalation from John’s lips. Warningly, Sherlock’s fingers flexed under John’s. _Best not draw this out any more, doctor._ John’s throat clicked as he swallowed.  
  
“The sucking. And not to be too blunt, the swallowing – indicating a, um, libidinal need to take me into yourself, empty me out. So, factoring in your pleasure at licking milk off my chest with your near-cannibalism of my poor nipple and the result is -?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flickered, then he blinked. “Oh. _Oh,_ of course. Melanie Klein! You don’t follow Freud at all.”  
  
John lifted a hand, palm-up to draw Sherlock’s attention back to John’s sober face. “It’s obvious.” He stressed the word that Sherlock so often threw at him. “Breast envy. Text-book case.”  
  
Sherlock gaped.  
  
John bit the inside of his cheek at the sight of Sherlock's horrified face. He pressed his twitching lips hard together but a muffled giggle escaped his nose. Sherlock's face went through several more expressions before his brows drew together and he looked at John. "I have – breast envy."  
  
"Worst case I've ever seen," agreed John. He was unable to help the broad grin stretching his face.  
  
Sherlock rested his hands on either side of John's head, caging him. "I... see. It's so _clear._ "  
  
Far from being alarmed at the looming presence above, John ran a hand up that lean torso until his thumb pressed a pale pink nipple. "Well. Not to repeat myself, but it's self-evident." He tweaked the peak, smiling at the dangerous expression of the man leaning over him.  
  
Sherlock's cheek twitched. John enjoyed the feral curl of that luscious mouth as Sherlock snarled, "You are a _terrible_ doctor."  
  
"Liar. You think I'm a _genius_."

And with that, they fell upon each other. John's hands swept over bare skin, shoulders, the long back before settling on grasping handfuls of trouser-clad arse and pulling, grinding his trapped erection unashamedly into Sherlock's. Sherlock's hands were yanking at John's hair as they kissed and bit, hungry and bruising hard. John laughed breathlessly between kisses at Sherlock's muttered threats. "Yes, that's it. _More,_ you tit." He howled as Sherlock dug fingers into his ribs at that insult. John's leg came up to twine behind Sherlock's thigh and he heaved. They rolled, two men well-matched in fitness wresting to be on top. Angling for a distraction, John got his hands on the fastening of Sherlock's trousers and wrenched them open, managing to slip them over the curves of Sherlock's arse before Sherlock's thumb slid over his bruised pectoral, hard. John yelped. In a trice he found himself on his back once more, with Sherlock a heavy weight on his chest pinning him down. "Ouch."  
  
Sherlock shifted to the side. "All right?”  
  
John caught himself before uttering his usual reassurance. “Well…” The truth was, he could feel the ache and sting of deep bruising around his nipple, but he’d had rougher reminders of Sherlock’s love-play on his skin before and it hadn’t bothered him. But now... the placement – _hmm_. He ran light fingers over the affected area, feeling the warmth through his shirt. “A bit painful.”  
  
Sherlock drew in a breath, but John pressed a finger to his mouth. “No. I liked it. A lot, remember. No regrets there.” He pressed on the full bottom lip until Sherlock opened his mouth and took the tip in. “But there's something you could do.”  
  
With his mouth occupied, Sherlock's reply was only to apply suction, tongue working in a familiar motion against the digit. John sucked in a breath. "Yes, something like that. You _devil._ Let me up."  
  
With a long-suffering sigh of denial, Sherlock let John have his way, rolling away and flinging an arm over his eyes. John grinned at his well-known dramatics, the pose somewhat spoiled by the gaping of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock's erection lay against his stomach, the tip red and glistening. Christ, what John wouldn't give right now to feel that gorgeous thing against his tongue. Maybe later. With relief at freeing his own aching erection, he kicked off his jeans and pants and flung socks away, enjoying the sight of Sherlock's cock bouncing with the jostling of the bed. Reorienting himself against the pillows, John took the milk jug from the bedside table and pulled the bag free. He spread his legs apart and toed Sherlock's hip. "Come on. Home remedy time. Get up here and apply yourself."  
  
Sherlock turned his head, arm falling away. His eyes flicked from John's bare legs, his cock, to the shirt still covering John's torso, finally coming to rest on the bag held up invitingly. He smirked. "A medical man using old wives' remedies, John? Tsk. Milk has no real medicinal effect topically applied -"  
  
John tilted the bag and Sherlock’s voice broke off, gaze sharpening. Milk pattered on cloth, soaking through sturdy cotton until the fabric stuck to his bruised chest. "Compresses aren't old wives' tales, Sherlock," John said, expression virtuous. "Now, are you just going to mouth off all night? Or are you going to do something with that wicked Kleinian tongue of yours?"  
  
In a flurry of limbs, Sherlock positioned himself on his stomach between John’s legs, arms bracketing hips. “I rather think I’ve been on the receiving end of more oral abuse this night than is your wont, John."  
  
“You like it.”  
  
"Be careful what you ask for." The stark warning in Sherlock’s statement was belied by his hot eyes.

John’s brow lifted. “For evidence of your oral issues? Still waiting.“ Sherlock's head dipped and John inhaled, fingers clenching around the bag as Sherlock's tongue licked a broad path from the root of his cock to the top. Warmth enclosed the tip, tongue circling before taking him deep in a smooth motion. “Oh, yes, that’s it.” John’s hips twitched, muscles clenching with the thwarted need to thrust up. Fingertips dug into his hips to hold them still, and Sherlock drew back, mouth reddened, a glistening line of saliva stretching from outstretched tongue. His eyes were fixed upon John’s face, expression predatory. He lapped once again at the shining glans and John swallowed. He reached out a hand but before it touched dark curls, Sherlock spoke.  
  
“More.” His eyes flicked to the bag in John’s hand and his wet chest, his meaning clear. John obeyed, squeezing the bag. The milk spread further on the cotton, sticky and sweet-scented. “Put it down." Sherlock punctuated this command with another flicker of his tongue that had John squeezing his eyes shut for a short moment. He fumbled the sagging milk bag into the jug and blindly set it on the bedside table. He heard it fall over but neither man looked away from each other. "Now rub it in, doctor," Sherlock commanded.  
  
John lifted fingers to stroke, face tightening as it touched contused flesh. Lightly, his thumb circled, tracing the pattern of tooth marks set beneath fabric and skin before circling his areola. Sherlock made a noise deep in his throat, head dropping down to take John’s cock in his mouth again. Encouraged, John stroked with a harder pressure, the small pain lost in the spiralling pleasure as Sherlock’s head moved, tongue working a wicked movement on the underside of his cock as he sucked. Using both hands now, John toyed with himself. A hard pinch brought a spike of pleasure-pain that made him grasp and thrust against Sherlock's grip. Sherlock choked, growled and pulled his cock in deeper, doing something so indescribable with lips, suction and movement that John began to feel the thrumming tightness of his impending release. "Sherlock. Sherlock, almost there, oh God, almost..."  
  
It was the signal Sherlock was waiting for – he released John's cock with an obscene noise. John's shouted protest was loud and immediate. He reached out to guide Sherlock's head back into its proper place but Sherlock knocked John's hands aside and sat up. Hooking fingers between the button gaps of John's shirt, he ripped it open, lips drawn back from clenched teeth. A button hole tore unnoticed. Sherlock applied his mouth to milk-damp skin, a harsh scrape of tongue and teeth that had John's mouth head snapping back to press into pillows. Sherlock's hand was on his cock, thumb rubbing over the slick glans. "Bastard. Move your _hand!"_ John hissed. His hands found curls, pulled Sherlock's mouth hard against his chest, his hips thrusting into the encircling fingers. Teeth found his aching nipple, fastened with delicate care. "Fuck, yes, harder!" Sherlock's hand moved faster and the pressure of teeth on sensitive flesh increased. John yanked on Sherlock’s hair harder, heedless of any pain. His back arched. "That's, _oh, more,_ that's it, that's -" Gasping, he spilled, deaf and blind.  
  
Movement above him pulled his awareness back. He opened his eyes as Sherlock levered himself up on one arm, hand moving hard and fast upon himself, face tight and eyes closed, chest heaving. Undone. Beautiful. _Fuck._ John closed a hand around the tense wrist braced next to him and Sherlock's eyes snapped open, wild eyes meeting John's before dropping to the reddening marks on pale skin framed by the open shirt. With a choked gasp he came, his release falling hot and thick on John's chest and stomach.  
  
Their heavy breathing was loud in the silence of the room. Sherlock's tongue touched his upper lip, then the corners of his mouth turned up in an open-mouthed smile. John could not help his answering grin. He tugged on the wrist he still grasped, urging Sherlock closer. Sherlock looked over the mess liberally spattered on his partner and a dark brow twitched. John released a silent sigh of amusement and affection. He could practically see the hard-drive of that brilliant mind whirring back up to speed.

Sherlock stroked the thumb of his free hand through the mixture of their semen, rubbing it over his fingers. Humming, he applied the slick liquid in ever-tightening circles, finger pads brushing in a teasing pressure over nipples that contracted at the sensation.  
  
John had to ask it. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Applying a compress." Sherlock's voice held faux-innocence in a cracked cup of mischief.  
  
"Bollocks." The cooling semen actually did feel soothing on the marks left by Sherlock's mouth and teeth. John found he was enjoying the sensation in an utterly depraved, debauched way. If he wasn't feeling so drained, John would – well, do something that actually required effort. Floating on a cloud of satiation, he couldn't be arsed. He tugged again at the arm braced on the bed, wanting the closeness of Sherlock's body sliding against his own. To hell with the mess. "What are you doing, really?"  
  
This time Sherlock did follow the urging pull, arranging himself on one elbow beside John, to his disappointment. "I can't disprove what you theorised, John." His lips touched the old bullet scar in John's shoulder.  
  
"Which part?" John's thoughts were still fuzzy. "The... oral fixation?"  
  
"No," Sherlock said, voice dropping to a deep purring timbre. "The breast envy."  
  
John managed an intelligent, "Oh?" in query before his mouth fell open as Sherlock's head fell forward, mouth covering John's unravaged nipple. Sherlock licked at the sweetness of milk and bitter semen with a satisfied noise, tongue swirling. Gently, Sherlock sucked at the pink flesh. "Oh, god," John managed. He felt the puffs of moist air as Sherlock spoke against skin, half-muffled between open-mouthed kisses. "Kleinian theories. There are two approaches to how one views the breast, which is the primal good object."  
  
"Go on." John was proud of the fact that his reply was relatively steady.  
  
Sherlock suckled, spoke again. "There is the envy – the destructive mode aimed at the object that provides gratification, the drive to consume that which is good." His hand came up, fingers pressing dents into the bruises on John's pectoral until John hissed, before tracing the tooth marks, the touch so light it was barely there. "And you are good, John. So very good." The voice was all that was sinful, the promise of wicked things, dark need. John inhaled.  
  
"And the other view?"  
  
Sherlock trapped the tip of John's sore nipple between thumb and forefinger, drawing it up until his fingers slipped off. His head moved back and forth, rubbing lips over the nub trapped under his mouth. John closed his eyes. Much more of this, and they would have a re-match, refractory period be damned. He forced his thoughts back to the discussion. "Sherlock?" Sherlock stilled.  
  
"Klein speaks of gratitude towards the object. The provider." There was a pause. John lifted a hand to the dark head, rested it on the wild hair. Sherlock continued. “Yet I want to take you apart, John. Swallow you whole. Destroy you - so you are mine, utterly."  
  
"You won’t." John spoke with no hesitation. "Trust me to know my limits." _And yours,_ went unsaid. His fingers carded through dark strands, lifting and smoothing them again. Sherlock spread his hand over the bruising.  
  
"For all that, there is gratitude. Klein theorised that this feeling for the providing object shaped one's capacity for love in all subsequent relationships throughout life. But my destructive tendencies -"  
  
"You’re overthinking. This is why self-diagnosing is shite. You’re too close to it."  
  
"A matter of perspective."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What do you see?"  
  
“Fidelity." John curved his hand, feeling the shape of Sherlock's skull beneath his palm. “Integrity. Goodness.” John felt Sherlock breathe out. All that brilliance and its knotty complexities, the hidden insecurities that tangled together in that great mind – and it was in John's keeping. Sherlock's head turned under the guidance of John’s, cheek resting against his arm. The pale eyes were obscured by half-lowered lids.  
  
"So. The gratitude that enables the capacity for love, and the envy that inevitably desecrates and destroys. Finding the balance. Thus far, I’ve only managed to alienate everyone who has got close. And then there came you, John. Is it difficult?"  
  
"Is what difficult?"

"Being you. Being my fulcrum."  
  
"Is it hard being you? Before you, I was cleaning my gun most nights.” Sherlock made a noise but John continued. “You frustrate the hell out of me, and then drag me to a crime scene. You remind me that life is there to be enjoyed. And you’re brilliant. You know me inside and out, bad parts included. Things I don’t even like to think about, and you don't turn a hair. Tell me - is that hard?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So. That’s my answer. It works. We work – because we are both fucked up. And we’re both fine." John drew in a breath. "Been wanting to tell you for years what you’ve done for me. So, now you know. In case you hadn’t deduced it. Thanks. Thank you."  
  
Sherlock smiled. He turned his cheek against John's chest close enough to lay a kiss against the pink circle near his mouth. "Gratitude. You see. You were right, Doctor."  
  
"Jesus." John's fingers convulsed and he pressed Sherlock's head hard against him. His chest felt tight with a sharp ache deep within. "I love you so much."  
  
Sherlock hummed in contentment. They lay still, breathing together. After some time, John's arm began to prickle with pins and needles. He was reluctant to break this moment but Sherlock's head was heavy. "Mm. Sherlock? I hate to say this, but I'd be grateful for a shower about now. I think I'm starting to smell like cheese."  
  
Sherlock made a discontented noise, but peeled himself away, standing to kick off his creased trousers and pants. John sat up and rolled his shoulder, shrugging out of his ruined shirt and tossing it over the side of the bed. Sherlock turned to the bathroom but kicked something. Bending, he picked up the blue jug that still contained a sadly deflated bag within. His mouth turned up at the corner. "Milk bags. Mammaries. Oral fixation. Breast envy. What a mind you have, John Watson."  
  
"I'll have you know, those theories were perfectly legitimate, Sherlock Holmes." John raised his eyebrows. Idly he rubbed the bite mark beginning to ache on his neck.  
  
"Mph." But Sherlock didn't sound displeased at John's challenge. "Freud and Klein's views are only theories, after all." He kicked John's discarded shirt over the wet spot in the carpet where milk had spilled. John scowled but made no protest.  
  
"So we won’t lose any sleep over them." John stretched out a hand for the jug. Sherlock passed it over and John lifted to his mouth, pinching the chewed tip of the bag to guide it between his lips. He tilted the jug and drank. "Mm. Not bad. It's got a bit warm." He licked the tip with a slow sweep of tongue and smiled at Sherlock's arrested look. "Delicious."  
  
Sherlock's lips pursed a moment before he spoke. "John. When you spoke of not losing any sleep over psychoanalytical theories – I believe you were wrong."  
  
"Well." John set the jug on the bedside table with a thump and reached a hand out to Sherlock. "Won't be the first time you've told me I'm wrong. But it'll be the first time I've been wrong all night." He laughed as Sherlock pulled him from bed, the bare flesh of their torsos rubbing. Sherlock nipped hard at his neck, then grimaced at the feeling of John’s sticky skin against his own. John chuckled again.  
  
"I know. Shower first."  
  
"Yes." Sherlock turned him around and began pushing him towards the bathroom. "There are two more milk bags left and more to discuss."  
  
"What's left to talk about? I think we’re past talking. How about a practical demonstration?"　John let himself be herded. He couldn't seem to stop smiling. "Anyway, we've covered your neuroses pretty well, Sherlock."  
  
"But not yours, John. And from what I've just witnessed, I believe I can theorise that you yourself -"  
  
"Ha. Don't get ahead of yourself. I was raised to drink my milk like a good lad." John turned in the confines of the tiled room to face his partner. He raised his face as Sherlock moved closer, grey eyes glittering. "Think maybe I have an oral fixation, genius?" John cupped a hand around Sherlock's neck and tugged his head down, licking and nipping before settling in for a deep, lazy kiss. He pulled back and spoke against full, swollen lips. "Prove it."  
  
Sherlock’s teeth gleamed in a grin. "With pleasure."

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by a hilarious post on Tumblr featuring a Canadian explaining how bagged milk works.  
> See: [Bagged Milk Tutorial](http://fancycake.tumblr.com/post/33607515950/okay-america-time-to-listen-the-fuck-up)  
> How my mind jumped from that to oral fixation, I can never really explain. The Sherlock + bagged milk = boobs is all [alltoseek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek)'s fault. My fault is my weakness for John being a doctor, because Clever John is Best John in my books and I think there is absolutely no reason for him not to be able to jerk Sherlock's chain once in a while.
> 
> If anyone wants to challenge my rubbish understanding of either Klein or Freud, please go ahead - it's all a bit hard to wrap my brain around, so I bent it for my own fell purposes. Sherlock and John, as noted in the end, don't take the theories too seriously, but are willing to have a little sexy fun with them.
> 
> Apologies if my less-than-serious usage of psychoanalysis is problematic.


End file.
